


Loudly Silent

by TheBigBadWolf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable, Angst, Drabble, Ficlet, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Nope just fluff I'm afraid, PWP, PWP without Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:29:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBigBadWolf/pseuds/TheBigBadWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks about what John said to him and John about what he had said to Sherlock. It's just not easy being different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loudly Silent

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look I made something! Never mind the fact that I have two other ongoing series to work on! =.= 
> 
> OH! And I definitely, definitely, definitely suggest you listen to The Mighty Rio Grande by Mychael Danna. It was pretty much the driving force behind this little drabble of mine. ^.^

“Dammit Sherlock!” John huffed as he threw his jacket over the back of his chair. “What the hell have I told you? You can’t talk….you can’t treat people like that! Time and time again, I’ve asked you to just…..just consider the other person. Seriously Sherlock! It’s wrong…..just wrong to say things like that to a person!” Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but was quickly cut off. “I don’t give a damn what you thought Sherlock! Honestly I don’t.” John threw his hands up and walked off into the kitchen but was quick to turn around and continue. “Look…” He kept his voice low. “I understand……I know it must be difficult. It must be….be…..be _annoying_ having to see everything about everyone all the time. It must be hard, and really I understand. I know how you are and how you get but Sherlock you can’t treat others like they are nothing.” Watson let out a breath he had been holding in and leaned against the back of his chair, letting his head hang. “Look just…..just think about it okay?” He snatched up his jacket and made to leave.

“John—” Sherlock voice was barely audible; he always developed a meekness about him when John was angry with him.

“I’m not leaving Sherlock. You know I’d never _leave_. I just need a bit of air.” And with that he made his way out of the flat and into the cold London air. Sherlock gingerly sat down in his own seat, steepled his hands, and gently set them against his lips. For once he had done as he was told; he sat and thought. He thought about how different he was, he thought about how sometimes John just couldn’t understand. He hated those moments, those thoughts, and those feelings; no matter what he did they were things he could never delete no matter how many times he had tried. And worst of all it made him hate himself.

From a very young age Sherlock knew he was different, knew he wasn’t like the others, didn’t think like the others. He’d often crawl into his mother’s lap and ask what was wrong with him, ask why it was that he was so different. It was also at a young age that Sherlock found himself hardening his emotions; in the beginning he would recite a mantra that stated that it was best for him, that it would all just be best for him if he just simply didn't feel anything at all. He knew Mycroft was like him though for some reason his brother had found a balance; a balance Sherlock himself had countless times searched for but couldn’t find. He’d never admit that that was the reason he detested his brother, that it just jealousy that fueled his hatred.

Sherlock thought about when John had come along. How the man had accepted him as he was and even praised him. He remembered the happiness, pride, and relief that had swelled in him the moment the other man had called him briliant. John was his saving grace, but even the soldier had his limits.

It was well into the night when John returned; as he walked through the still open door he found Sherlock passed out in his chair. John knew it would happen; the idiot detective hadn’t slept in nearly a week. Shaking his head John grabbed the hideously orange shock blanket from the couch and covered his flatmate with it. And as he watched the man sleep he let the feeling of guilt sink in.

“God. I’m sorry Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” His voice was barely a whisper and his words wavered then hung in the air. John sat across from him in his own chair, letting his own thoughts spiral away from him.

Sherlock was different, he had always been different. That’s just who he was and John had torn him down because of it. John knew exactly what he was to Sherlock; he knew his affect on the man. He knew that amongst the few who tried, he was the _only_ one who truly understood Sherlock Holmes. John thought he could have punched himself for yelling at the man the way he had, for storming out as he had. Just as Sherlock did, John let exhaustion overtake his downward spiral of thoughts and he too fell into sleep.

_John Watson stood in the middle of a battlefield, faceless corpses littered the ground and the sun rose with colors of deep red. He looked around himself, not daring to spend any more than a few seconds on each form. He looked for a certain face though if asked he wouldn’t be able to tell you whose. Not finding the face he was looking for he closed his eyes and raised his head letting the heat sink through his skin. He knew that no matter what these would always be the horrors that haunted him._

_Sherlock Holmes found himself standing in a barren wasteland; he looked around and tried to deduce exactly where it was that he was at. Though he tried he couldn’t come up with anything, his mind had gone strangely blank. As he looked out towards the rising sun he found a figure standing as still as a statue. He felt an odd sense of fondness for the figure though he didn’t know why. Abandoning all reason he let his legs carry him to the man standing with his head raised and eyes closed. When Sherlock reached him he circled the man and tried to read everything he could about him but the man had sensed his presence and opened his eyes._

_Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were staring at each other. Both their minds supplying the same question: Who are you? Both minds coming upon the same conclusion: It doesn’t matter, we belong to one another and that is enough._

John bolted from his chair and Sherlock from his; neither could place what it was exactly that had woken them. Breathing heavily and their thoughts still fuzzy from their sleep addled brains; they just simply watched one another. After some time they both came upon the same conclusion and that was that it wouldn’t take a genius to understand the line they were both willing to cross at that moment. And without another word, thought, or even breath they were in each other’s arms. It was a flurry of hands and fingers and gentle caresses and kisses. They didn’t have anybody else like they had one another, and they knew that that wouldn’t change.

They were after all, the great Sherlock Holmes & John Watson. 


End file.
